


Things Fall Apart

by sospes



Category: Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets (2017)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 21:46:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11837670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes
Summary: Laureline falls in the line of duty.





	Things Fall Apart

**Author's Note:**

> I love this bizarre, wacky film.

Laureline bares her teeth in a smile that’s closer to a snarl, snaps a fresh power cell into her gun and turns a sharp, maddened glare on Valerian. “This was not how this was supposed to go,” she barks, ducked down beneath the half-destroyed bar in an attempt to avoid the gunfire that’s raining down on them from outside. 

Valerian’s hands are tight and cool around the grip of his own gun. He allows himself half a second to miss his suit, then moves on because they were undercover and undercover means no suit. He’s just glad they knew this place was going to be rough enough that guns wouldn’t look out of place. He pushes up, trying to get a peek over the bar, but that just attracts even more fire towards his face and, well, he’d prefer his face to remain intact. He crouches back down, shuffles as close to Laureline as he can manage. “Ideas?” he yells.

“Time travel so we never came here in the first place?” 

Valerian’s not so preoccupied with the firefight that he can’t glare at her. “Helpful ideas?” 

A muscle twitches in Laureline’s jaw. “How long ‘til back-up gets here?” 

“Ten minutes, maybe more,” Valerian answers, then winces into a tighter crouch as something explodes outside. 

The few remaining bottles on the shelves above them shatter at the shockwave, showering broken glass down on them: a shard cuts deep into Laureline’s cheek, leaving a bloody gash and a yelp of pain on her lips. She presses her hand to the cut, cocks her gun in the other. “Not sure we can last ten minutes!” she spits, then takes her hand away, peers at her palm. It’s like she’s dipped it in red paint. 

Valerian shakes his head. “We’ll be cut to shreds if we make a break for it,” he calls. “They’ve got too much firepower.”

Fragments of glass gleam in Laureline’s hair. “I said we should have brought a grenade.” 

“Yeah, a grenade,” Valerian repeats. “Exactly what you want in a _bar_.” 

Laureline jerks a bloody thumb in the direction of the unseen guys pumping fire at them. “They brought a machine gun!” 

“I’m pretty sure the machine gun was already here,” Valerian mutters under his breath, and he’s pretty sure that Laureline’s about to yell at him for being unhelpful when there’s another boom from outside, this one strong enough to rattle his teeth in his skull, and then – nothing. The gunfire stops. Dead quiet. 

Valerian can hear his own heartbeat like thunder. 

Laureline’s frowning. _Are they gone?_ she mouths. 

That seems unlikely. “I don’t know,” Valerian whispers. “Could be a trap.” 

Laureline cocks an eyebrow. “Could be an opportunity,” she counters. Her bloody hand returns to her gun, and she raises it to her cheek, flashes him a grim smile. “I’m going to take a look,” she says, tone brooking no argument. “Hold on.” She rises slowly, every muscle tense, shoulders tight, until she’s peering over the top of the bullet-ridden bar, gun barrel practically pressed against her bloody cheek. She stays there for a long time, almost longer than Valerian can stand, just watching, just waiting, then her shoulders relax, her breath sighs out, and she stands in one smooth motion. “They’re gone,” she says, gun still raised but looser, now. “They’re gone.” 

Valerian’s heart is a drumbeat in the quiet. 

A neon-bright laser blast hits Laureline square in the stomach, sends her spinning backwards, crashes her into the wall of broken bottles and thuds her to the ground. Her gunless hands grope for the charred hole in her dress, for the bloody mess of her flesh, and then she looks for Valerian, finds him, meets his gaze, chokes out his name. 

Valerian sees red.

He’s over the bar and running towards the blasted-out doors of the bar before he really realises what he’s doing, gunfire hailing around him but somehow missing him, missing him because there’s no way in hell he’s going to let them live, let them win. He sees movement through one door and fires instinctually, sees the shape fall and then moves onto the next, the next. He slaughters them, and they keep fighting back, of course, keep pouring weapons fire towards him, raking wounds across his arm, his shoulder, his cheek, his thigh, but there’s too much adrenaline pulsing through his heart for him to stop. 

He kills them all, and his hands don’t even shake. 

The mission’s forgotten, now, and he crashes back behind the bar, back to Laureline. Her breath comes in hiccups and her eyes are shot wide, veins throbbing in her neck and spittle hanging from the corner of her lips – but she’s alive, she’s alive, and that’s what matters. “Laureline,” Valerian husks, cupping her non-bloody cheek, pressing his other hand to her stomach. “Look at me. Hey, look at me.” She does, eyes a shade of blue so bright it’s practically irreverent. “You’re going to be fine,” Valerian insists. “Can you walk?” 

There’s blood beading at the corner of her mouth. Valerian’s not a doctor, but he knows that’s a bad sign. 

“Hold on,” he says before she can try to answer. “Alex isn’t far.” He lifts her as carefully as he can but she still cries out at the pain, her fingers digging into the back of his neck, and it’s only when he’s standing that he feels _his_ pain, lancing through his leg, sharp like fire. He dimly remembers stumbling when the blast hit but it’s hazy like a dream, like it happened to someone else. What little medical training he does have is telling him that he should stop, shouldn’t put weight on it until someone far more qualified than him has looked at it, but there’s no time, _no time_. More people could start shooting at them. Laureline could die.

Bile rises in his throat, and he runs. 

When he looks down at her, she’s deathly still in his arms. Her eyes are closed, her head lolls against his shoulder, and for a long, fractured second he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to do if she dies. 

Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, long and delicate, and her lips part in a moue of agony. It’s enough. 

Valerian’s not entirely sure how they get back to the ship, because he certainly wasn’t paying attention to where he was going, not with Laureline’s blood staining his shirt and her hands clutching weakly at his skin. Alex is speaking to him as he rattles through her corridors but he’s not listening, not listening. The doors to the cramped medical bay scythe open in front of him. He thunders in, lays Laureline out on the first bed as carefully as he can – and the only thing that really cuts through the haze in his head is the fact that she _doesn’t_ cry out this time, she _doesn’t_ scream. Her eyes are closed. Her breathing is shallow. 

“Alex?” Valerian barks, stark and shrill.

“ _She is unconscious,_ ” Alex answers. The smoothness of her artificial voice should calm Valerian’s panic but all it does it make it worse. “ _Her injury is too severe for my capabilities. Plotting a course for the nearest hospital._ ” 

“Good,” Valerian says, nodding. He takes her limp hand, squeezes it between his numb fingers, and he thinks he should say something more, give orders, take instructions, but everything’s sort of… fuzzy. He blinks, grabs at the side of the bed to steady himself. 

“ _Major, my readings indicate that you have lost a significant amount of blood. Please, lie down so that my medical scanners can properly assess your condition._ ” 

Valerian’s gaze strays to the second bed in the medical bay, then down at himself because he knew he was covered in blood, that much was obvious, but he’s only just starting to realise that it’s not all Laureline’s. The stains in his shirt, yes, that’s hers, but there’s a dark, oozing mess soaking his right thigh, dripping down his calf, oozing into his sock, staining his shoe. That’s – a lot of blood. 

Valerian stumbles again, loses his grip on Laureline’s hand, and before he really knows where he is he’s on the floor. 

“ _Major Valerian, please attempt to reach the bed. I have raised a stasis field around Sergeant Laureline to stabilise her condition; I will do the same for you to prevent further blood loss._ ”

That sounds like a great idea. Trouble is, Valerian’s legs don’t seem to be working. 

“ _Major Valerian?_ ” 

Valerian’s passed out on the floor, head tipped back against the cool metal. 

 

Valerian wakes to white walls and white clothes, mercifully unbloody. 

He lies still for a long moment, feeling the dryness of his mouth and the soreness in his muscles, eyes still closed. He’s cautiously optimistic that he’s not waking up in the afterlife he doesn’t believe in, so after a moment he ventures to crack an eyelid. The brightness is almost enough to make him go spiralling back into unconsciousness, but instead he just pulls a face and narrows his eyes to slits. This specific hospital is unfamiliar but he’s been in enough hospitals in his career that he gets the general gist: medical readouts, blank white walls, blankets drawn up neatly over his once-battered, now-healed body. 

He can’t see Laureline. 

Valerian sits up, takes stock. His bloody clothes are gone, replaced by clean a white hospital smock, and a quick check reveals that his wounds are healed, no trace whatsoever of minor nicks, some slightly tender skin in his thigh all that’s left of the hole that was leaking blood like there’s no tomorrow. The rest is just a mild ache in his limbs, a familiar sensation from all the times before he’s been patched up in places like this, and a faintly bitter taste at the back of his throat, probably from medication or drugs or something. 

Laureline isn’t here. 

Valerian finds a robe and slippers in a cupboard in his room. He should probably hit the call button and get a doctor to come check on him first but he has other priorities, so he pulls them on and slips out the door. The hallway is unfamiliar in as much as he doesn’t know this specific hallway, but its type is very familiar: sterile, cool, clean. A government-run facility, then, which is good because if Alex took them to a government hospital their idents will have been scanned and they’ll’ve been rushed to the front of the queue. They’ll be top priority.

Laureline will be top priority. 

“Excuse me,” Valerian says, voice rusty with injury, then flashes a smile at the nurse on the desk in an attempt to pass the husk off as winning charm. “I’m looking for someone. Could you help me?” 

The nurse looks unimpressed. “I don’t think you should be out of bed, Agent Valerian,” he says, eyebrow cocked. “However, seeing as there’s a note in your medical record that says that you’re unlikely to cooperate with us if you don’t get your way, how can I help you?” 

Valerian’s not sure whether to be flattered or offended that he merits a special warning. “My partner,” he says, dropping the charm. “Agent Laureline. She was injured in the field, but I passed out before we arrived here. Where can I find her?” 

The nurse consults his record screen, mask of careful professionalism couching his expression in neutrality. “I’m afraid that she’s still in surgery,” he says, look back to Valerian. “There was some serious internal damage.” 

Valerian’s hand tightens on the edge of the desk, unbidden. “Is there a prognosis?” 

“None recorded here.”

Valerian’s not sure whether he should sit down and try not to pass out or give in to the temptation to scream at the top of his lungs.

The nurse is still watching him, his forehead furrowed, but after a moment his expression softens. “I can’t take you to see her,” he says, apology rising in his voice, “and I wouldn’t recommend that you wait in the waiting area for her to come out: your injuries were not as extensive as your partner’s, but you still required emergency work. If you will return to your room and try to rest, I promise that I’ll come and find you the moment she’s out of surgery.” 

The last thing Valerian wants to do right now is go back to his room and wait. 

“There’s nothing you can do for her right now,” the nurse interrupts before Valerian can voice that particular thought. “The doctors are doing the best they can for her. You gain nothing by exhausting yourself.” 

Valerian flashes him as toothy a smile as he can manage. “I think I’ll take Option B,” he says. 

The nurse’s eyebrow quirks. “Which is?” 

Valerian tilts his head towards the uncomfortable-looking chair sitting opposite the nurse’s station. “I’ll wait there,” he says. “That way you can keep an eye on me, and you can tell me when she’s out even sooner.” He pauses, cocks a combative eyebrow. “Deal?” 

The nurse’s lips press into a thin line. “Deal,” he says finally, and then: “At least let me reattach all the readout nodes that you pulled off?”

Valerian shrugs, goes to sit in his seat. “Sure,” he says. “Whatever.” 

He sits in that chair for nearly three hours. He gets the reluctant nurse to bring him a commlink and he calls in to headquarters, reports on the fuck up in the bar, passes on instructions to the relevant authorities to make sure that the case is passed on to other competent agents because Agents Valerian and Laureline have been compromised and will no longer be able to conduct undercover work. That’s what they were supposed to be, of course, undercover, but they were sitting in the corner of this bar, waiting for the dealer in illicit substances—intoxicants, stims, artificial lifeforms—and Valerian saw this guy who was just staring at him. He ignored it at first, figured it was probably just some admirer eyeing him up because, hey, who wouldn’t? – but then the guy kept staring, kept staring, and a twinge of recognition began to ping in the back of his mind. He knew that guy. He knew that guy. 

Turned out that it was a guy Valerian had sent to jail for three years half a decade previously. The realisation came at about the same time as the firing started.

Valerian’s breath thuds louder for a second, and all he can remember is a neon flash and blood on Laureline’s lips. 

He should have caught it earlier. He should have spotted the guy the moment they walked in there, but five years is a long time and he was a different person, back then. He doesn’t remember everyone he’s arrested. He doesn’t remember everyone whose life he’s ruined, but if he ruins Laureline’s because of it, well, he honestly doesn’t know what he’s going to do.

Valerian sits in that uncomfortable hospital chair, robe pulled tight around him, slippers hanging off his feet, and waits. 

It’s the middle of the night, local time, when Valerian’s friendly nurse ducks a little closer to his readout screen, then glances surreptitiously up at Valerian like he’s got a hope in hell of not being noticed. Valerian, predictably, is on his feet immediately. “Well?” he demands. 

The nurse’s eyes are tired. “She’s out of surgery,” he says. “Still no word on the system about how she’s doing, but I’m sure I can find the doctor for you. They’ll know more.” 

Valerian shakes his head. “I want to see her.” 

The nurse blinks. “Only family are allowed into recent recovery rooms, Agent Valerian. I’m afraid partners aren’t the same thing, even those operating under the auspices of the federal government.” 

A muscle started ticing in Valerian’s jaw about forty minutes ago, and he doesn’t have the wherewithal to care enough to make it stop. He slams his hand down on the top of the nurse’s station, fingers flat and strong, ring dull and bright on his finger. “I’m family,” he says, voice a growl, eyes a blaze. “So take me to her.” 

The nurse pauses for a moment, attention caught by the tension in Valerian’s fingers, his wrist, his arm, then gets to his feet. “Of course, Agent Valerian,” he says, apology rich in his voice. “This information wasn’t in your file. I’ll take you to her immediately.” 

“It’s privileged information,” Valerian says quietly, falling into step because he might be bolshy and confident-bordering-on-arrogant when he wants to be, but he’s not about to get in the way of getting what he wants. “I’d appreciate it if it stayed between us.” 

“Of course.” 

There’s a doctor standing outside the private room Valerian is lead to, and the nurse goes to her, says something in a low tone that Valerian doesn’t touch. She turns to face him, smile weary but genuine, and says, “Agent Valerian. Thank you for your patience.” 

“How is she?” Valerian half-demands. 

The doctor doesn’t seem offended by his bluntness. “She’s awake, and resting,” she answers, tucking the records sheet in her hand under her arm. “I want to keep her in for a day or so to check on her progress—it was a tricky surgery at points—but the dermal regenerator did its work well and I don’t foresee any further issues.” 

Valerian feels all the fight go out of him like a popped balloon. “May I see her?” 

Lines crease into a smile around the doctor’s eyes. “Go ahead.” 

Laureline’s room is much the same as Valerian’s, clinical whiteness and blinking medical readouts. She’s propped up against the pillows, skin pale, hair limp on either side of her face, gaze intent on the tablet in her lap, and she doesn’t look herself at all, no, she looks like she’s on the verge of breaking, but the last time Valerian saw her she looked a lot more half-dead than this. 

She looks up as the door swings shut behind him. “Valerian,” she says, his name like a sigh. 

All of his witty words die on his tongue. He crosses the distance between them in three steps, slippers slapping loud on the tiled floor, and then her head is in his hands and he’s kissing her, passionate bordering on desperate, loving edging closer to frenzied. She gives almost as good as she gets, one hand curled around the back of his neck, the other gripping the front of his hospital gown, but he presses a little too firmly and she winces. He stops immediately, cups her cheek. “Are you okay?” 

She wraps her hand around his, offers him that little smile of hers that he’d know anywhere. “I’m fine,” she assures him, smiling. “I’m sore. But I’m fine.” 

There’s a strength in her voice and an intensity in her blue eyes. Valerian believes her. His shoulders slump and he settles himself on the edge of her bed, her hands wrapped in his. His lips curl in a smirk, and he kisses her one more time, a gentle touch of lips on lips. “By the way,” he drawls, “your nurse kind of thinks we’re married.” 

Laureline’s expression is unimpressed. It’s perfect. “Why?” 

He wiggles his hand at her, ring gleaming. 

Laureline slaps it down. “That was for our cover story!” 

Valerian shrugs. “They weren’t going to let me in here,” he says. “I wasn’t going to be kept out of here.”

“So you lied?” 

“Well, technically you never actually answered my proposal,” Valerian points out. “Marriage is sort of a yes or no thing, not a kiss-me-and-think-about-it-later thing.” 

“You didn’t seem to be complaining about the kissing.” 

“I would never complain about the kissing,” Valerian insists. “Have to say, though, I’m not so impressed with you getting yourself shot.” His gaze drops to her stomach, hidden beneath the folds of the blanket. 

“Me neither,” Laureline sighs, plucking at the blankets with the hand that’s not wrapped around Valerian’s. “It was stupid. I – misjudged the situation.” Her expression twists, and Valerian knows full well the self-recrimination that’s flooding her heart. “I should’ve known better.” 

Valerian shrugs. “I should have noticed the guy that made me sooner,” he says flatly. “If I’d been more alert to our surroundings, you never would have been in that situation to begin with.” He offers her a lopsided smile, squeezes her hand. “So there’s blame on both sides.” 

Laureline narrows her eyes at him, clearly not wholly convinced, then her gaze darts away, to his hospital robe and hospital slippers, his bare legs and freshly-washed hair. “Valerian,” she says slowly. “Why are you dressed like that?”

She’ll read it in the official report, anyway. “I got hurt getting you to safety,” Valerian answers. “Mostly minor injuries, but a nasty wound in my thigh. I passed out in Alex’s medical bay on the way back. Blood loss.” 

Laureline is quiet for a long moment, studying him with those bright, keen eyes. “You’re okay now?” 

“I’m okay,” Valerian confirms. 

It seems to be enough. 

 

They spent another thirty-six hours or so in that hospital. Valerian’s discharged in the morning, after a different doctors comes, checks him over, and doesn’t even bother trying to get him to stay longer than he wants to. He goes out for just long enough to find Alex and pick up some non-easy-access clothes for them both, then comes back and spends the next night in Laureline’s room, glaring at anyone who tries to make him leave. She sleeps for a decent chunk of that time, her body still recovering from being torn apart and put back together, but when the next morning rolls around and her doctor pronounces her fit to leave, as long as she takes it easy for a week or so, she’s champing at the bit to get out of there.

“Okay, fine, I get it,” Laureline complains the moment they’re out the front door. “Hospitals are supposed to be soothing and sterile. But would a little colour hurt them? It’s white, white, white. So _boring_.” 

Valerian nods along, aping interest. “Here’s a suggestion,” he offers. “Quit the force, and take up a career as an interior design for hospitals. I’m sure it’ll be very fulfilling.” 

“Ha, ha,” Laureline deadpans. 

The spaceport isn’t far away and there’s hardly crowds of people on the way, but by the time they’re clambering up Alex’s ram Valerian can see the strain in Laureline’s expression, in the way her hand presses oh-so-lightly to her stomach. He closes the bay door behind them, then touches a hand to her elbow, says, “Go rest. I’ll get us some food.” 

Laureline’s nose wrinkles. “Can it not be Alex’s rations?” she asks. “I’ve had enough of prepacked hospital food.” 

Valerian’s lips twist. “Takeout?” 

Laureline nods enthusiastically.

Valerian goes to order takeout once he’s shoved Laureline gently (very gently) but firmly in the direction of Alex’s living quarters. He goes to find her once the takeout is here—C’eanian noodles and crispy high-rad fish, her favourite—but has a minor heart attack when he nudges the door to her room open and finds it empty. For a moment his brain goes spinning through all the possibilities—sudden death, kidnap, insanity, just to name a few—but then he sees that the door to his room is ajar and there’s light spilling out from inside. Relief floods through the haze of adrenaline.

She’s sitting in his bed, back propped against the bulkhead, apologetic smile on the lips as he comes through the door. “I figured you wouldn’t mind,” she says by way of explanation, then peers at the containers in his hands. “C’eanian?”

“Only for me,” Valerian deadpans. “I forgot to order for you.” 

They sit in his bed and eat the food, crumbs and drops of broth getting everywhere because Laureline might not be fully okay but she’s more than well enough to take exquisite delight in annoying Valerian. She knows how he likes his quarters—tidy, organised, efficient—and so she tries to sneak crumbs under his pillows and into the pockets of his clothes. He pretends not to notice, then flicks broth in her face. It’s easy and relaxed and simple and it’s going to take far too long to clean up afterwards, and after a little while Valerian finds himself staring at Laureline, caught in her smile and her brightness.

Her forehead wrinkles and she stares back. “Valerian?”

“I thought you were going to die,” Valerian says before he really knows what’s coming out of his mouth. He feels embarrassment flare in his heart but there’s no time for that, now, because she’s watching him with a kind of stillness in her eyes, just waiting. “I carried you from that shitty bar back to the ship, and you were bleeding all over me and your eyes kept shutting and I thought you were going to die.” 

Something flickers in Laureline’s eyes, something indefinable that Valerian doesn’t want to put a name to, and she reaches out, pulls him towards her. He barely has time to push the remains of his food to one side before she’s kissing him, lips spiced and flavoured, crumbs on her skin as she runs her hands through his hair. There’s a hunger to the kiss, a hunger and a need, and Valerian should not, he should disentangle himself because she’s tired, she needs to rest, she’s just got out of hospital, but he can’t help himself. He thought she was going to die, and he was not prepared for how the thought wrenched his gut and pulled him apart from the inside out. 

“Valerian,” Laureline whispers against his lips. 

Valerian kisses her again, fierce, ferocious, then reaches down and pushes the takeaway containers out of her lap. He can clean the sheets later, because right now he needs her and, from the way she’s pushing his jacket off his shoulders, he thinks she probably needs him, too. She was the one who nearly died, after all. He lets her strip off his jacket, his shirt, then he reciprocates, tugs her top over her head and tosses it away to join the takeaway and the crumbs. His hands slide down her skin, warm, smooth, alive, and for a second he squeezes his eyes shut, presses his forehead to hers and tries not to shake. 

Laureline’s hand runs down his neck, down his back. Her breath is hot against his lips. 

Valerian pulls back, his knees either side of her hips, and runs his hands down the sides of her stomach, thumbs dipping into the hollows above her hipbones. The doctors have done their job, of course, but they’re not magic, they can’t make the memories disappear. There’s a jagged patch of new pink skin sprawled across Laureline’s stomach, bright and angry, and Valerian spreads his hand across it slowly, watching to make sure she’s not in pain, she’s not uncomfortable at all, feeling, touching, staring. She just watches him, hair a flood against the pillows, and runs a hand through his hair, touches his cheek. 

He remembers her for a moment, blood soaked through her clothes, through his clothes, arm lax around his neck, eyes shut, head lolled against his chest. She was a rag doll in his arms. 

“I love you,” he says, because it’s all he can think and because it seems like the right thing to do. 

Her answering smile is soft. “I love you,” she answers, and, well, there is it. 

Her skin is raw and unfinished under his palm. Valerian bends down, kisses it lightly, lightly, fingers still splayed across her stomach, then skims his hands down even further and makes short work of the rest of her clothes. She laugh as he fumbles with her socks, then scrambles upright, pushes him back onto the mattress and returns the favour. She straddles him when they’re both naked, the rest of their clothes off somewhere with the underwear and the takeaway, then pauses, cups his face with both hands, kisses him sweetly rather than frantically. “I’m here,” she says, eyelashes long and heavy. “I’m alive.” 

He returns the kiss, just as gentle. “I know,” he says quietly. “I guess I’m just reminding myself.” 

She presses herself against him, eyebrow cocked. “Well then,” she says. “Why don’t you make sure you _really_ remember?” 

Valerian’s not about to refuse an invitation like that. 

The sex isn’t gentle, isn’t loving and careful and respectful. It’s wild and—considering the amount of takeaway that’s left on the bed—messy, and by the end the pillows are on the floor, the blanket’s draped over a chair and Laureline’s hanging half off the bed, hands pressed against the floor to hold her up, laughing that bright, pealing laugh of hers while Valerian does his best to clean noodle broth off her thigh with his tongue. When he’s done he hauls her back up into bed, pulls what remains of the sheet over them both and kisses her, studies the sweat in her hair and the crumbs inexplicably caught in her eyelashes. “Do you think this is what the doctors meant by taking it easy?” he asks. 

Laureline lifts up the sheet, inspects the new skin across her stomach. “I’m not bleeding and leaking guts, so I’m going to go with yes.” 

Valerian just about manages to suppress his flinch. “Good to know.” 

Laureline drops the sheet, looks up at him. “I read the report you filed,” she says. 

Valerian cocks an eyebrow. “You did? When?” 

“When you were out getting clothes from Alex.” 

“I thought you were asleep?” 

“Only for a bit,” Laureline demurs. “I was woken up the nurse, then I couldn’t get back to sleep and I saw you’d logged a report, so I read it.”

“And?”

“You killed them all,” she says, quieter. “All the people who were shooting at us, after I got hit. You killed them _all_.” 

“They weren’t nice people,” Valerian points out. 

Laureline shakes her head. “That’s not what I meant,” she says. “You’re a soldier. You don’t slaughter people like that, you’re too controlled.” 

A muscle jumps in Valerian’s jaw. “Not when it comes to you, apparently,” he says, voice growlier than he intends. “It turns out I’ll do a lot of things to keep you safe.” 

Laureline stares at him. “That’s kind of more worrying than romantic.” 

“You’re telling me.” 

She stares at him a moment longer, deeply sceptical, then seems to dismiss the thought. She turns away, curls up against his side, head propped on his chest. “Well,” she says. “Thanks for saving me, I guess.” 

“You guess?” 

He can’t see it, but she’s smiling. “I would have figured out a way out of there without your help eventually.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Laureline looks up at him, hair tousled, skin pinked. She’s smiling—well, more of a smirk, really—and he’d never admit it but warmth twists its fingers through his chest. “Also, I can’t believe you pretended we were married so they’d let you see me. They would have let you see me eventually.” 

Valerian shrugs. “I wanted to see you then,” he says. “And are you really that surprised?” 

“I suppose not,” she allows, then resettles herself against him. “We should probably clean up in here before we go to sleep,” she says, but even as she’s saying it Valerian can hear the tiredness seeping through her voice. 

“It can wait ‘til the morning,” he says, then: “Alex, dim the lights.” 

The lights dim until there’s nothing more than a faint glow around the edges of the room. It’s almost romantic, like firelight, and for a moment Valerian lets himself do nothing but feel: the warmth of Laureline’s skin, the whisper of her breath, the tickle of her hair. Her side rises and falls in soft accompaniment to the rhythm of her sleep. 

Valerian sleeps, too, after a while, and dreams of her blood on his hands.


End file.
